


distractions

by gortysproject



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Daniel "Pain is Interesting" Jacobi, Don't read this in public kids, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 03:49:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10936383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gortysproject/pseuds/gortysproject
Summary: kepler is using a new technique at their training session. jacobi is falling for it every time.





	distractions

**Author's Note:**

> ............first time and probably last time writing something nsfw. blame the w359 discord for encouraging this

With a thud, Jacobi’s back hits the floor. He groans. Kepler chuckles.

“Something wrong, Mr Jacobi?”

Yes. _Yes_. _Kepler_ is wrong. Everything is different, today – this isn’t the first time they’ve stood opposite each other, fists raised, delivering punches, kicks, even _headbutts_ , but it’s never like this. Kepler is never so… distracting. Or, at least, so _purposefully_ distracting. Today is different; he keeps dropping winks and catching Jacobi with a surprise left hook, or wrapping an arm around his waist with surprising gentleness, even ghosting lips over his cheek, before kicking the back of his knee and sending him to the floor.

He stands above Jacobi, now, offering a hand. His lips curve at the corners, smug, irresistible, and he knows exactly what he’s doing to Jacobi but it’s not as though he’s about to stop. After a long moment, Jacobi takes the hand offered to him, and Kepler pulls him to his feet with ease.

“Not at all,” Jacobi replies, telling himself that as much as he’s telling Kepler. He rolls his shoulders, curls his fingers into fists, and raises them. He’s relatively proud of how steady his voice sounds – if he doesn’t _sound_ frustrated, maybe he doesn’t have to _be_ frustrated.

Kepler knows, anyway. Kepler always knows. And Jacobi’s lie of indifference, no matter how brazenly offered, falls flat on its face. They both know it. Kepler’s smirk widens.

With no warning, he throws the first punch.

Jacobi is sent reeling back, cheek stinging, fists still raised, and he immediately straightens up to reciprocate the swing. He aims directly for Kepler’s face, deciding if he’s going to hit him anywhere, it’s going to be in his ridiculously self-assured smirk.

Maybe Kepler wasn’t expecting Jacobi to respond so swiftly and aggressively, because he doesn’t block the blow in time. He staggers back, only a couple of steps before his balance is regained, lifting a hand to touch his split lip. The smirk is stretching into a grin, now, teeth bloody and eyes wicked. “There we go,” Kepler croons, voice low. This was what he was waiting for. He wanted Jacobi to actually _fight back_ , distractions be damned.

Jacobi takes a brief moment to appreciate that they are alone in the training area. Nobody is around to watch him fall apart under the heated gaze currently trained on him.

The next move is a kick – a quick, unexpected strike, hitting Jacobi right in the stomach to double him over. The moment his torso rocks forward, Kepler raises his hand, pushing down hard on Jacobi to shove him to the ground in an easy movement – he was too off-balance, too reactive, nowhere near composed enough to stay up.

Jacobi grunts when his knees hit the floor, and he lifts his hand, pushing stray hairs from where they hang in front of his eyes as he looks back up at Kepler. It would be impossible not to notice the dry swallow as Kepler regards him; Jacobi is, after all, on his knees in front of him. It must be quite the sight – eye-level with his crotch, mouth parted for faint gasps, a trickle of blood smeared across his lips and his hair a sweat-matted mess.

Their eyes meet, and Kepler reaches forward, pushing fingers through Jacobi’s mussed up hair himself and loosely curling them into a fist to tilt Jacobi’s head back. The mood in the room has changed. The spark of competition has been dimmed, replaced with the humid crackle of _tension_.

Kepler stares down at Jacobi for a long moment, fingers still tugging his head back to expose his bared throat to the world. “You were doing so well,” he murmurs, and the fingers loosen, letting go, but Jacobi doesn’t move the angle of his jaw, his head, even a fraction. He stays frozen where Kepler wanted him to be. The reward for his obedience is that Kepler’s fingers trail from behind his head, brushing over his cheek before his thumb presses against Jacobi’s parted lower lip. Jacobi doesn’t take his eye off him. Kepler’s face is one of perfect concentration.

Then he removes his thumb, lifts his foot and pushes Jacobi down to the floor with his heel.

Jacobi goes down, hitting the mat compliantly, trying and failing to ignore the heat pooling in his gut as Kepler leaves his foot planted firmly on his chest. The drawn eyebrows and concentration is gone, replaced with an easy smile, a careless joy.

“You’re a good fighter, Mr Jacobi,” Kepler says, voice carrying in the empty room. “What’s holding you back today?”

_You’re distracting me_ , Jacobi doesn’t say. _You’re flirting with me while fighting me_ , he doesn’t say. _You’re breaking the rules_ , he definitely doesn’t say. “I don’t know, sir,” he lies, and the foot presses down on his ribs. He winces. The pain sends a thrill through him.

“You’re normally a better liar, too.” Kepler’s voice is nonchalant. “Care to try again?”

Jacobi grits his teeth. “You’re…” He squeezes his eyes shut, feels the mat pressed against the back of his skull, and forms his answer. “You’re not exactly being helpful.”

“Helpful?” Jacobi hears the falsely innocent lilt in Kepler’s tone. He both loves and hates it.

A sigh releases through his nose, a sharp exhale, exasperated. “You’re distracting me,” he eventually says, caving in. “You keep – you know.”

Kepler responds without hesitation. “And you can’t deal with that?”

“I didn’t say that,” Jacobi responds sharply – a little _too_ sharply. He’s always too eager to please. Judging by the sparkle in his eye, Kepler seems to like that about him.

The foot lifts off his chest, and Jacobi assumes he can stand, moves to sit up and resume their sparring – but he can’t. Kepler is lowering into a crouch besides Jacobi, where he still lays on his back, and Kepler’s head tilts a fraction to regard his subordinate. Jacobi would give anything to know what is going on in his mind.

He doesn’t have to give anything, it turns out, as Kepler adjusts himself a second later to move in front of Jacobi’s raised knees. He parts them, carefully, kneeling down between the spread legs and fixing his eyes on Jacobi’s own.

Kepler leans over Jacobi, and Jacobi is fairly certain the entire building can hear the heavy thudding of his heart. He stays where he is, not daring to move a fraction, as Kepler lowers himself down. “We can’t afford to have you distracted, Jacobi,” he tells him, voice barely above a whisper. Jacobi feels Kepler’s breath wash over his skin. He’s so _close_.

And, Jacobi supposes, this is what he’s been waiting for this entire time, ever since Kepler unbuttoned his shirt with a wink at the beginning of the session. It’s a shame – he knows he has to ruin it. _We can’t afford to have you distracted, Jacobi._

He tightens his legs around Kepler where they already loosely bracketed him, pushing off from the floor to flip them over so he is now straddling Kepler. His heart is in his throat. Sat on Kepler’s hips, palms pressed either side of his head, and eyes scanning Kepler’s face for any sign of displeasure with what just happened, Jacobi replies (only _slightly_ breathlessly), “I’m not distracted. Sir.”

Kepler seems taken aback with the flip, but after only a mere second to recover, he grins. “That’s more like it.” And whatever test this was, it appears Jacobi passed.

Jacobi has nothing to say to that, though. And as the seconds tick by, while he waits for Kepler to give him an order – _get up, Jacobi,_ or _care for another round, Mr Jacobi?_ – he starts to become uncomfortably, painfully aware of his position. The sweats they wear for training practise are loose, baggy, thin, and Jacobi is straddling Kepler’s hips, and there is _very_ little being left to the imagination.

Eyes still trained unblinkingly on Jacobi, Kepler’s lips are once again curving up at the corners into that familiar smirk. Jacobi’s heart is caught in his throat. Without even jostling the man in his lap, Kepler sits up slowly, until he’s resting on arms with his own palms pressed against the floor and he is, again, only an inch or two from Jacobi’s face. “I think,” he murmurs, voice so low Jacobi can feel the vibrations more than hear his words, “ _you_ might be the one distracting _me_ , today.”

Jacobi presses forward. Kepler meets him halfway.

Having spent so long being so achingly ready for this, ever since they stepped into the changing rooms, ever since Kepler let on that this training session would be a test of Jacobi’s restraint, ever since he _winked_ at him, Jacobi falls into the kiss with a heady desperation. He’s impatient – he’s always too impatient. Kepler slows him down with a hand on his waist, gripping firmly but not _tightly_ , and a retreat from the kiss to press something feather-light to the cut of Jacobi’s jaw. Jacobi is aware that his eyes are closed, but he doesn’t want to open them. Instead, he tilts his head fractionally, and Kepler’s lips trail from his jaw to his throat.

“Relax, Jacobi,” he whispers against Jacobi’s skin, and it’s soon followed by a faint smile as he feels his subordinate shiver. “We have time.”

After a moment, Jacobi does as he’s told, relaxing into Kepler’s hold and draping an arm over his shoulder. He’s still straddling his lap, still obscenely close to him, and he still shudders when Kepler’s fingertips press under his vest and begin to draw the fabric upwards. Raising his arms, he helps Kepler tug the vest off, discarded on the ground beside them as his own fingers scrabble to pull Kepler’s vest up too.

Kepler’s new access to Jacobi’s body results in trailing fingers, nails scraping gently over the faint outline of ribs, and a choked-off noise as he combines thumbing a nipple with sucking a mark into Jacobi’s collarbone. Jacobi is beginning to rock forward, slightly, hesitantly, in Kepler’s lap, searching for some kind of friction. It’s far more obvious than Jacobi thinks – still, the rutting increases, as do the quiet gasps that accompany them.

Senses already heightened from the adrenaline of the fight, the one thing making this experience even _more_ unbearable is the way Kepler presses into existing bruises – old ones, new ones, ones Jacobi gained mere minutes before in this very training area. Every press into a bruise is another shockwave that shudders through Jacobi’s entire being, every trace of tongue on his split lip producing a sharp pain that only causes him to moan.

“Sir,” he hisses, as Kepler’s thumb digs into the bruise flowering on his hipbone, “ _please_.” He sounds pathetic – needy, breath catching on moans before he’s even taken his pants off, but he can’t help himself. He’s so tightly wound that he needs something more than this purgatory, this rutting in Kepler’s lap, this hungry feeding off of the sparks of pain flickering through his spine.

Kepler pulls back, and clearly sees the desperation in Jacobi’s eyes, as his only reply is, “Where would _you_ like to take this next?”

It’s insulting. He’s talking to Jacobi as though he’s a child, a mentee, someone to hold his hand and be guided through. His fingertips twitch where his hands are draped over Kepler’s shoulders, and he sees the glint in Kepler’s eye, sees the challenge he’s offering to him, and decides to take that challenge. He’s already flipped them over to land on top; it’s time he earned his place there.

A hand plants itself firmly over Kepler’s heart before Jacobi is pushing him to the ground, watching the Colonel fall into the movement with ease. Immediately, Jacobi is moving back, ignoring the pulse of want coiling in his own gut to instead hook fingers in Kepler’s waistband. A glance – he meets Kepler’s eyes for a second to ask, _is this okay,_ and the twitch of Kepler’s lips replies, _yes, of course_ – before Jacobi tugs down, catching Kepler’s sweatpants and his boxers in one uncharacteristically elegant move. Kepler settles back, watching with what could be amusement or desire or apathy in his eyes as Jacobi leans down, curling fingers slowly and loosely around Kepler’s dick.

They’ve been here before, they’ve been here so often, but nothing will ever be as thrilling as watching Kepler’s dry swallow when Jacobi starts moving his hand up and down the shaft. After a couple of pumps, Jacobi leans down further, and takes the tip into his mouth.

The adrenaline is no longer pumping through his veins from their sparring session, but now from the knowledge that anybody could walk in at any time – Mr Cutter _himself_ could appear – and all they’d see is Kepler, shirtless, watching Jacobi sucking his cock in the middle of the training area. It’s vulgar; Jacobi _loves_ it. And the thought spurs him on, makes him take more of Kepler’s dick into his mouth, still pumping the base as his tongue wraps around the tip. His eyes flutter closed, breaking the connection to Kepler, and a moment later, he feels the solid weight of a hand in his hair.

The fingers curl, tighten, never pushing Jacobi down or pulling him up yet remaining there as an unforgettable, grounding presence. As Jacobi goes down further, takes even more of Kepler’s dick into his mouth, the fingers pull ever so slightly, and the muted pain produces another moan from Jacobi.

They continue like that for a while longer, Jacobi moving down to take Kepler’s entire cock into his mouth before he has to pull up and repeating as Kepler’s hand imperceptibly begins to push him down. When Kepler’s breaths start to come slightly quicker, when his hand tightens impossibly further on Jacobi’s hair, Jacobi pulls up, glancing up at Kepler with tears in his eyes and a lazy, debauched half-smirk tugging at his lips. The gaze he receives in return can only be compared accurately to _fire_.

“Jacobi,” Kepler tells him, voice strained in a beautiful way that Jacobi has learned to listen out for, “if you stop now, then so help me God, I will –”

Kepler is cut off with an honest-to-god whimper as Jacobi takes Kepler’s entire cock in his mouth, sucking hard and feeling the trembling of muscles beneath his fingertips where his hands press into Kepler’s thighs. Moments later, with an exhale that is _far_ too breathy for Kepler’s usual style, he comes. Obediently, Jacobi swallows everything.

The grip in his hair slackens before disappearing altogether. Jacobi sits up with half-lidded eyes and a glow of satisfaction when Kepler murmurs, “Good boy,” and guides him forward for a kiss that can only be described as utterly filthy.

When Jacobi is back in Kepler’s lap, pressed against him, kissing him, Kepler reaches down to tug Jacobi’s own sweatpants down. This is far more intimate – Jacobi’s lips hover only an inch or two away from Kepler’s as he wraps fingers around Jacobi’s dick, stroking slowly, firmly. He chuckles lowly as Jacobi whines, using his free hand to run fingers through Jacobi’s hair once again and try to sort it out from the absolute mess it’s become. Jacobi fucks into his hand, hips rolling, fingers clutching at his shoulders urgently, moaning into the side of Kepler’s neck.

Wound up from earlier, it doesn’t take long for Jacobi to spill out over Kepler’s hand – with a stuttering gasp, a flush in his cheeks and a mumbled, “ _S-sir_ ,” it’s over.

And without hesitation, Kepler leans over to grab Jacobi’s forgotten vest, wiping his hand on it. Jacobi scowls. “ _Hey_.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Kepler replies, passing the vest to Jacobi. He’s still sat on his lap; boneless and exhausted from the sparring and the sex, he can’t find it in himself to move just yet. Kepler isn’t moving him off, either, just grinning faintly and asking, “Were you about to use that?”

“Not anymore,” Jacobi mutters, wrinkling his nose at the dirtied fabric. “You owe me a new shirt.”

Kepler hums noncommittally. “I think I rather prefer you without one, for now.”

**Author's Note:**

> as always, i'm @aihera on tumblr


End file.
